


A Skeleton in the Suitcase

by Inkbl0b



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Dub Con/Non Con Elements, F/M, POV Second Person, Please recall that the Boss melts puppies as a hobby, Reads as a reader-insert, Retired Cop, Slow Burn, Smidge of Gallows Humour, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkbl0b/pseuds/Inkbl0b
Summary: Employed by an obscure organization with unsettling reach, you're in too deep to reconsider the consequences of playing minion to a criminal.When in doubt: keep your head down, your mouth shut, and your suitcase watertight.





	A Skeleton in the Suitcase

From a distance, you can hear the train’s air horn cut through the silence, signalling the last call for departure.

It also signals the exact moment your brain admits how unbelievably absurd this whole plan is.  
  
The wooden planks beneath your modest heels creak and groan as though warning you ―cautioning you to turn around and go home. Your grip on the worn suitcase is tight and clammy. Desperate. Even the tiniest bit of control in the wild disarray of emotions going through you is gladly welcome. The sun had gone down hours ago, taking any last bits of dusty rose warmth with it. January winds worsen the already freezing temperatures; you shiver from within the confines of your camel wrap coat.

  [⎈](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBAFz880b_Y)  
  
It’s quiet on the docks. Deserted. And you like tranquility . . . when you want to think. Right now; however, you want nothing more than a distraction from the voice in your head. The one screaming through your bones, saying:  
  
_Go home._  
  
_Go home while you still can._  
  
And you’re tempted. You're tempted to simply turn your back on the horizon and walk away. As soon as you’ve stepped off the pier, second thoughts will mean bull. And it’s that sudden stab of fear that causes your feet to shift, and you turn, facing the unfamiliar town behind you. Yet for all the nervous energy coursing through your body, you’re unable to take that first step off the salt-worn boards.  
  
The past eight months had been full of tension and uncertainty. However, as these sorts of things usually tend to go, it hadn’t started that way.  
  
Things had been looking up, despite the rising expenses.

Blackwell City had been a decent place when you’d moved there. However, the recent spike in villain activity over the past year had the locals bearing problems that no intrepid, masked hero could take care of:

Taxes.

Villains seemed to be popping out of nowhere these days, armed right up to their teeth with gadgets that, at times, even the toughest superhero could barely manage to overwhelm. And whoever was behind them only appeared to be getting more and more ingenious with their designs. The resulting destruction occurred at a staggering rate ― the city simply couldn’t handle the expenses. And so, tax rates were mounting faster than what most citizens could keep up.

Even so, you’d gotten a steady job at a publisher as an illustrator, the little studio apartment you were renting on the outskirts of town was old, but cozy and you were having lunch with Grandad thrice a week at that diner downtown; where he would always buy you a slice of bourbon pecan pie for dessert. Granted, you hate pecan pie. Nonetheless, you always make sure to eat every last bite without fail. Because you’re just as powerless against those endearing little crows feet in the corners of his eyes as a young woman as you were as a child.

Your shoulders slump, and you angle your face upward. Exhaling softly, you gaze at the sky for a moment, and then walk toward the end of the pier. Getting involved with criminals certainly isn’t your cup of tea, but you were willing to go to Hell in a hand-basket for him―smiling the whole way down if need be. He needed you, and without that surgery, you were dreadfully aware of how every hug goodbye, every last peck on your head . . . could be the last.

Somewhere deep down, tucked and hushed into a whisper, there was anger. Why did he lie for so long? You both knew how awful he was at fooling people, and yet he stubbornly refused to acknowledge the need to ask for help. To reach out. You weren’t a child anymore.

Your lips press into a line, and you scoff, a white plume lazily curling past your lips.

Not as though you’ve got any room to talk. You’d gone ahead with this rash gambit without breathing a word to anyone, preparing and carefully tying loose ends, all so you could offer him the help he was so desperately in need of. He would never accept the fruits of your labour while knowing what it entails―what you’re putting at risk by doing this.

By playing minion to echo white knight.

And so you’d lied to him about your whereabouts, about your reasons for quitting your job, and moving out of that tiny apartment you’d finally warmed up enough to call ‘home’.

Because it is infinitely better to be resented than mourned.

And that is the thought that keeps you in place when a speedboat breaks through dense sea fog. The black Sea Ray approaches, its nearly soundless motor going quiet as it floats serenely next to the dock ten feet before you. No one greets you, nor exits the boat. You wait. A chirp escapes your pocket, and you know it’s the only signal you’ll get to board the vessel. The darkness and poor visibility make it impossible to discern any details about the helmsman. There are a few lights, you note as you walk forward. Two small yellow almost chartreuse lights glow from the helm, and a larger crimson one shines from where you assume are the rear seats.

You hoist your suitcase onto the boat, but the boat rocks from the shift in weight. Heels sliding against the smooth surface, your body pitches backward.

Eyes wide―you yelp, arms flailing. Shutting your eyes, you brace for the plunge into freezing waters.

_TNK._

A firm grasp on the front of your coat pulls you back onto your feet. Hunched over, you gather yourself, still a bit dazed. Releasing the air in your lungs, your pulse attempts to soothe itself. Brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, you look up at your saviour.

“Thank y-”, the words die in your throat the moment lightning splits soot skies. Light reflecting off metal panning.

The deafening crack of thunder shifts into a low, ominous rumble. With parted lips you realize three things:

(1) There is a nefarious-looking, nine-feet-tall robot on the speedboat with you, (2) the last thing you need to worry about is drowning, and (3) not even the Lord is bringing you home.

 

 

 

 


End file.
